


The Rise of Harley Quinn

by BeMyDarkling



Category: Harley Quinn (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 05:11:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6039544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeMyDarkling/pseuds/BeMyDarkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Harleen Quinzel tells her story of how it all began.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rise of Harley Quinn

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know it's not 100% canon. Please don't hate me for it.

Years of medical school were coming to their end, and I was eager for it. I chose Arkham for my residency because it seemed exciting. There were a lot of big names in there and there was one in particular I wanted to see.  
Officially, we treated all our inmates the same. Unofficially, he was the big one. The one with the weirdest behaviors, the longest case file, highest body count. The most secure maximum security cell was reserved for him, (not that it ever did much good). All in all he was a very accomplished criminal.

He came into the exam room, irritated with the guards who escorted him. His trademark smile was thin and insincere. He was obviously not with us, probably drawing up intricate plans for escape. His imprisonment was always temporary, a small snag in his lifelong efforts.  
I spoke his name and he looked up. He studied my eyes for a moment then sat down graciously. It was standard procedure for the guards to stay within arm’s length, just in case he tried anything. He didn’t. He just sat there watching me with the posture of a man taking in the scenery. We discussed his meds and I tried to tease out the depths of his illness. Every last disorder in the book isn’t able to sum him up. Even after I had picked a diagnosis, I couldn’t help but ask more questions. He complied, so chillingly polite. He told me terrifyingly twisted stories with a calm air, about the people he’d killed or the people he’d forced to kill others. All the while, he studied me. I felt like he was learning more about me from this interview than I would ever learn about him. He took note of every reaction, every little idiosyncrasy. I left the room that day shook to the core. I tried to tell myself I was afraid of his homicidal madness. In truth I was afraid of how much he fascinated me. I would give anything to know what was going on inside his mind.

I started to look forward to our sessions all day. I found myself subconsciously doing small things with him in mind. He seemed to like me in red and black. He never said anything but that small glimmer of approval in his eyes was all it took. I knew how wrong it was but his attention was an irresistible high.

It became harder and harder to conceal my laughter from the ever vigilant guards. He was genuinely funny, no one could possibly contest that. While I was struggling to appear professional, he was endlessly patient, sitting there like a man waiting for the sand in an hourglass to run out.  
I arranged to have private sessions, on the grounds of his unsurpassed compliance with me. The cameras were always rolling but I turned the recorder off. His tone grew soft with me, almost affectionate. He read me like a book, even managing to pull out the brooklyn accent I had worked for years to cover up. In those hours, he made me feel free. I gave up all pretense of a psychiatry session. The things we discussed invaded my mind deeply and every moment I wasn’t with him I was overcome with thoughts of the beautiful symbolism through which he lives his life and the intense thrill of all consuming obsession.

One day, at the very end of our session, just before the guards came back into the room, he looked straight into my eyes and said “Tonight.” The guards opened the door before I could reply.  
The word haunted me all day. I told myself I didn’t know what it meant but I knew I was lying to myself. Midnight, I crept down to his ward. He was sitting awake, waiting for me. He broke into his terrible smile and spoke. “Harley darling, Come on in.”  
I swiped the key card and stepped inside. He crossed the room and pulled me close. He peeled off my white coat and whispered “You won’t be needing this anymore.”

He kissed me and I was undone. A low laugh escaped my lips, growing louder as I felt the chains of decency, morals and society leave me. I laughed at the absurdity of right and wrong. I looked into the eyes of this monster and found I was looking into a mirror. He took the key card from me and opened the door. Stepping through the doorway, he actually lingered for a moment before he turned back and grabbed my hand. It was then that I knew for sure and for certain what he had known for a long time. I was, and always will be, irrevocably his.

**Author's Note:**

> Harley has such a huge persona, it's easy to forget she was once a professional psychiatrist. I find her so fascinating. She's one of the most complex characters in the DC universe.  
> I love how Joker was her tipping point and obsession, but he didn't make her who she is. Nobody made Harley but Harley.


End file.
